


broken hearts (make it rain)

by Tilion



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Give me a break, M/M, Pining, Post-Reichenbach, Unrequited Love, maybe a bit ooc but it's my first fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:02:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22535164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tilion/pseuds/Tilion
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was bleeding.Sherlock Holmes had been bleeding for a very, very long time.***After his return from the dead, Sherlock's injured in more than one way.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 46





	broken hearts (make it rain)

**Author's Note:**

> Possibly terrible, possibly not.
> 
> Title from "Identikit" by Radiohead.

Sherlock Holmes was bleeding. 

Sherlock Holmes had been bleeding for a very, very long time. 

Not the sharp, stinging pain of a fresh wound, but the duller ache of a sorrowful moment not quite lost to memory. Pain. He'd always thought himself immune to trifles such as pain. Emotion. Love. Foreign things to him. Faraway, distant things.

And yet —

 _Bleeding_. 

He couldn't pinpoint when it had started. Sometimes between now, and the moment John Watson had stumbled into his life, all tentative smiles and pale, disheveled hair, with creases between his eyebrows that suggested those tentative smiles were harder for him than frowns. Maybe there wasn't a moment. Maybe it had been gradual — a slow, sliding fall.

But a fall into what? Love? He didn't think . . . he didn't know if he even believed in such a thing. The idea that two people out of seven billion could find each other, accept each other as two sides of the same coin —

A fall into _something_. Something like love. Something like the ancient songs of saints and poets he so often dismissed as fantastical, ridiculous. Something that made it harder than it ought to have been to look Mary soon-to-be-Watson in the eye. Something that made him feel as though he deserved it — utterly deserved it — when John had hit him. Even though his whole body still throbbed from the beating he'd taken in Serbia, and John slamming him onto the floor had sent pain flaring across his back, his arms.

He couldn't be angry at John. Not about that, not if he tried. Because whatever he felt for John Watson dug at a wound buried deep within him that he'd never realized was there. Because John Watson —

_No. Stop._

He had to _stop_ this.

John was marrying Mary. _Mary._

John loved Mary. Mary loved John. The real way, the way a wife was meant to love her husband. Not whatever strange, twisted thing had wormed its way into Sherlock's ruined heart. 

And he could not afford to forget it. 

***

"Sherlock?"

Some distant part of him recognized John's voice — always — but he kept playing anyway. His long, pale fingers curled around his bow, dancing over the strings of his violin. And the music — the music flooded his head. Billows of music, ribbons of music swirling and swirling, almost enough to drown out the clockwork of his mind. 

Almost.

"Sherlock."

His fingers stilled. "Yes." It came out cooler than he intended. 

"I'm coming in."

"Fine."

He resumed playing. Beneath the high swoops and low thrums of the music, John's footsteps echoed behind him. Sherlock didn't turn around, didn't have enough energy to school his face into the cool mask John was used to.

A crescendo. A handful of long, mournful notes. And the soft, almost indiscernible hum of vibrations as his hands stilled once more, followed by aching silence. 

For a moment, neither of them spoke. John cleared his throat. Sherlock pictured him shifting from foot to foot the way he did whenever he didn't know what to say. "Mary'll be here in a few. She's fetching the fabric swatches for the bridesmaid's dresses."

"What does it matter what color the bridesmaid's dresses are? Nobody's going to be looking at them."

"Sherlock."

"Well, nobody will. It's to be expected at a wedding; the bride is the center of attention."

" _Sherlock_."

" _John_ ," he mocked. 

"Mary and I," John continued, ignoring him, "were thinking purple." More footsteps. Sherlock bit his tongue to keep from stiffening as John drew nearer. "Or light blue."

He kept his gaze fixed on the window, set the violin carefully on the desk. "I don't have an opinion on the matter."

"You always have an opinion. On everything."

"Hmm." 

"You've been so focused on making sure the wedding goes well." The slide of fabric against fabric. Sherlock pictured him crossing his arms. "What's gotten into you today?"

At last, he dared to turn. Dared to look John in the eye, if only for a moment, before his gaze darted away. The jacket. That was the jacket John had been wearing on the day Sherlock jumped. The day Sherlock died.

He loosed a sharp breath. "I'm fine."

"I didn't ask if you were fine, I asked what's gotten into you."

"Nothing," he snapped, "has _gotten into me."_ Too fast, with too much force. Too much feeling — he swallowed it, but the words had already come out.

John eyed his clenched fists. "Obviously _something_ has."

He forced his fingers to relax, forced every scrap of emotion to bleed from his face, while every cell of his body was screaming at him to _let it out_. Talk. Tell John a thousand things — a million things. Tell him, _I'm lost._ Tell him, _I thought I knew who I was and what I stood for and now you're here and I think I don't know anymore, I think I might be somebody else, I think you ruin me, I think I might_ love _the way you ruin me._

Instead, he said, "Tea."

"What?"

"Tea," he repeated shortly. He swept into the kitchen, unable to face John without letting go of his mask, his reason. "Let's have tea."

Why today? Why was it that he couldn't talk to John without feeling as though he might implode? Other days — normal days — he was fine. _Fine_. He might even have preferred it if Mary were here. Because today, for whatever reason, he couldn't do this. Couldn't do this dance, play this game. 

He was tired of it. Tired of playing an endless damn _charade_ —

No tea. How could he be out of _tea_? 

"Right," Sherlock muttered under his breath. "Mrs. Hudson." She was out shopping; they'd run out of almost everything the day before. 

"Sherlock?"

He whipped around. John leaned against the kitchen doorway, faintly amused. 

He opened his mouth to say something. Anything. And what came out was, "No tea."

"No tea?"

"No tea."

"S'fine."

"Fine?"

"Fine." John's amused smile slipped slightly. He rubbed his temples. Slid a little farther down the doorway. Now that Sherlock looked at him, really _looked_ — John looked exhausted. Utterly exhausted. The logical part of his brain, what he'd always considered to be the _only_ part, registered the dark smudges beneath John's eyes, the coffee stain on his cuff that suggested inhibited motor skills, the hastily tied laces of his shoes.

He'd rushed here, even in this fatigued state — why? For some reason, it stirred something in Sherlock. Something hurt and confused and for some reason, angry.

John cared. About him. And it wasn't — it wasn't enough. Why couldn't it be enough? Here he was, rushing to talk to Sherlock in private before Mary arrived, asking if he was all right — he was, yes he _was_ , damn it all — and _why couldn't it be enough?_

Why couldn't it be enough to have lost John (no, another part of his brain reminded him, no, _John_ was the one who'd lost _him_ ) and then have him back? The aching, bleeding wound inside him screamed for attention, and he shoved it down, numbed it, ignored it. As always.

As was his only option, the only way he could survive.

"I think," he said quietly, "you ought to leave."

John blinked. Straightened. "I — what?"

"You heard me." The words tasted sour in his mouth. He forced himself to hold John's gaze, forced himself to ignored the way his lips parted ever so slightly in confusion. "Leave. Go to Mary."

"Sherlock, you know just as well as I do that you can't be alone all the time —"

" _Leave."_

Blinking. Hurt, flashing in those deep brown eyes before quickly being eclipsed by resignation. 

John turned. Left the kitchen. Walked through the flat until Sherlock could barely make out his footsteps. He'd expected John to yell, would have preferred it if he yelled — somehow, this silent retreat only made the wound deep inside ache more. 

The door swung open, then closed again. A stair step creaked, and then silence.

Complete, hollow silence. 

Alone, Sherlock stalked back into the living room, crossing to the window. He leaned his back against the glass. He couldn't bring himself to look outside, where John was no doubt walking away down the street.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes was bleeding.

Bleeding, and the only kind of doctor that could fix it had just walked out the door.


End file.
